


forget-me-not

by Chierei



Series: Redacted [2]
Category: Gotham (TV), John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Drama, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, John Wick POV, M/M, Oswald is the Administrator, Redacted AU, References to Nygmobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-12 23:16:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21484450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: In another world, John Wick allows himself to fall for a man he knows as Matthew Richardson.Meanwhile, Oswald finds himself with an armful of the Baba Yaga and wonders if this is something he gets to keep.
Relationships: Administrator/John Wick, John Wick/Oswald Cobblepot
Series: Redacted [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529969
Comments: 52
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in an alternate universe of _Redacted_, diverging starting from near the end of Chapter 2. It will probably will not make sense without reading at least the first two chapters!

#

John remembered the first time he saw him.

It almost felt cliche, thinking that, and it was ridiculous given the constant stream of newcomers to replace the fallen at the Continental. But John remembered him.

It was his first day back in the New York Continental after a four-month stint in Europe where he bounced between Rome, Paris, and Budapest, chasing leads and targets, one after another as Tarasov Family tried to gain a steady foothold. He had been exhausted and barely had enough energy to drop off his bags in his room before he made his way to the Lounge to pay his respects to Winston.

He had been at the bar when John walked in, saying something to Addy. He had no piercings at the time, just the start of what would become an impressive sprawl of tattoos on his exposed forearms and brilliant blue eyes that John could see from a distance. He had been laughing at something, and the way his face changed at the expression, struck John.

“Jonathon,” Winston greeted, closing his book as he gestured for John to sit. “Back from your globe-trotting adventures, are we?”

John took his hand, giving it a shake before sitting. “Just got in. Who is the new bartender?” he asked.

It wasn’t a strange question–the Continental had a shift of four bartenders, and that hadn’t changed in all the years he had been coming. None of the current workers were old enough to retire and were the least likely option for extermination.

“Ah, yes,” Winston said, and there was a furrow in his brow as he took off his glasses to place them on the table. “Matthew has only recently joined us perhaps a month ago?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Any reason? Not like you to deviate from tradition.” And it was tradition, though unspoken, that only one bartender was working per shift. There was never a rush, never a crowd. The Continental gave what it wanted, and you took it without complaints.

“Ah,” Winston said, and the hesitancy piqued John’s interest. “He is a...special case. He fell into a bit of trouble on Marcus’ behalf but found his way back to us.”

There was plenty unsaid in those few sentences. Enough unsaid that made John curious and a curious John Wick was not something to be taken lightly.

* * *

“It’s a bad idea,” Marcus said, cutting off John’s concentration.

“What?” John said, taking a sip of his drink and pretending not to know what Marcus was talking about.

“Matthew,” Marcus said with an unimpressed raised eyebrow. “I can see how you are watching the lad, and I’m the last person to begrudge you for taking a look at a cute little thing like that. But that cute little thing has teeth.”

“Are you just upset that you had him for almost three months and didn’t notice anything off?” John teased,

Marcus grunted, and John knew he had hit a sore spot. “I didn’t _not_ think something was off, but the lad has a silver tongue. In more ways than one.” The smirk this time was edged with the innuendo.

John laughed, pushing at Marcus’s shoulder in jest.

“But, really, John,” Marcus continued. “It takes someone of great talent to fool us all. He played us, all of us, for months, masquerading as a pretty little piece of arm candy when he was really a wolf, a snake in the grass.”

John nodded. He had pried the story out of a few acquaintances, and everything he learned only made him more curious. Matthew Richardson, a transparent alias, but no leads on his real identity. His presumed age was approximately mid-twenties, though he had the ability to look even younger at times. He had spent almost three months masquerading as an escort, vapid and soft-spoken, who clung to Marcus’ arm anytime he was in the Lounge.

And then he had been kidnapped by Mikhail Reznikov, a foolish upstart who had been hoping to make a name for himself by taking the contract out on Marcus. He had hoped that Marcus would have been lured out of affection for his young lover and, when proven wrong, had practically insured the death of young Matthew.

Except, Matthew waltzed into the Continental nary an hour later, blood on his sleeves and three gold coins in his hand. The next thing anyone knows, he’s behind the bar with Addy, smiling and flirting and, for all intents and purposes, a completely different man.

Winston was wary of him which is why he kept him close. Not to mention, the man was an undeniable asset–it is no small feat to fool a hotel full of assassins and spies. The man had a quick, sharp mind, and the ability to play on the sympathy of those around him. Even those who knew Matthew’s history with Marcus couldn’t help but lower their guard around him. It was something to do with those wide eyes looking at them, so open and expressive.

The man was an enigma, a mystery. No one knew anything about him prior to the first day he walked into the Continental, and the only thing they knew as truth was his injured leg. He was…

Fascinating.

“I recognize that look on your face,” Marcus said, “and I’m going to tell you to drop it.”

“I don’t know if I can,” John retorted, watching as the man carefully limped out from behind the bar. The cold weather had made his limp more prominent, and John often wondered why he didn’t use any sort of cane or walking aid. John saw what was coming before it happened, saw the way Matthew’s leg gave out and how he stumbled.

John was on his feet before he realized, one hand on his elbow with the other on his waist, steadying him.

Matthew looked up at him and offered a smile, shy and grateful and, undoubtedly, carefully calculated. “Spasiba, Mr. Wick.”

* * *

John liked Matthew.

He had few friends outside of Marcus. Viggo was his boss, and Winston would always be the Manager before all else. After he had left the Ruska Roma, contracted out to Viggo by his handlers before the reigns were officially handed over, John had few that he considered friends.

Friends were a dangerous concept under the High Table–not when at any moment, one might be facing down the end of a barrel with a friend on the other end. Emotional attachments were always taken lightly, and friendships could be a dangerous weakness if one-sided. John, with his naturally taciturn demeanor, kept few friends.

But Matthew was–and John couldn’t deny it–a friend. The man was quickly becoming his favorite part of the Continental, and he loved how he’d always make time for John. Matthew would always deliver John’s drink and then stop to chat, sitting on whatever was available. John had learned early on that if he chose one of the single seats, Matthew had no compunction against settling into his lap.

John started hoarding Russian phrases to teach Matthew, writing them down in a small notebook as he recalled, and late nights correcting his pronunciations became some of the few good memories he had in his life.

Matthew was clever–more intelligent than most gave him credit. John could see how he leaned into certain traits, how he distracted most through his outrageous flirtation and a care-free attitude. John could see the mastermind behind it all who was pulling strings that no one else knew even existed. Marcus had been apt than he knew when he called Matthew a snake in the grass.

And John had never been a jealous creature. He had grown up in a place where bruises and beatings were given like candy, where emotions were scorned, and the greatest accomplishment anyone could have was _not dying_. So he wasn’t bothered with Matthew’s well-known night time activities, nor how the man blew alternatively hot and cold at John.

Matthew could be the most outrageous flirt, looking at John with a question and expectations in his eye, and then be pulling away. John learned to read his moods, could tell when he really meant what he was saying and when he was saying it because it was expected.

So when Matthew was flustered, blushing deeper than he had ever seen, he knew it was real. That the attraction that fissioned between them, the bond that had been building slow but steady in the last years, was something that he wanted. And it was something John wanted too.

* * *

Being with Matthew was a whirlwind.

The man drove John mad, made him simultaneously want to coddle him, lavish him with compliments an affection while he also made John want to push him down on the table, to take and take and take. John started spending more time at the Continental, a habit that Viggo allowed because the Baba Yaga wasn’t to be denied, and he spent more and more time feeling caught in Matthew’s orbit.

It should have been infuriating because John knew no more about Matthew now than he did when they first met. But John never pried, and Matthew returned the favor.

But it was times like these, where they were wrapped up in bed, curled against each other, skin to skin with the sweat still cooling, that John wanted more.

* * *

John kissed down Matthew’s chest, using his tongue to trace the curve of his muscles and the swirls of ink. John loved Matthew’s tattoos, loved how the black ink contrasted against his otherwise pale skin. He loved how the silver bars through his nipples made them a rosy pink, loved how sensitive Matthew was when he tongued at them.

Tattoos had meaning. John knew this best of all, knew it since he was thirteen and could feel the small punctures of the needle along his back.

_Fortune favors the bold._

“Will you tell me about them?” John asked, stopping from where he had pillowed his head into the soft flesh of Matthew’s stomach. He leaned into the younger man’s hand where it was idly running through his hair, petting him in a post-coital relaxation.

“Hm?” Matthew responded, stopping him from whatever tune he had been humming.

“Will you tell me about your tattoos?” John asked, clarifying. And he could feel the tension immediately at the words, what was once relaced, soothed muscles tightening. Had John not been so close, had not known this body almost as well as his own, he might have missed it because Matthew never stopped his petting, and his voice kept its low, drowsy note.

“They aren’t all that interesting,” Matthew said, and John wondered if he should drop it. But this man had him wrapped around his finger, however unknowingly, and John Wick was, above all, a man of singular focus.

John crawled up and kissed Matthew, dragging his tongue across his lips in an invitation, pressing into his mouth and taking, begging, asking. When he pulled away, he could feel the heavy beat of his own heart and the matching drum of Matthew’s. “Please,” he said, behind his bangs.

Matthew held his stare, and John was once again enraptured by his eyes. Words couldn’t describe them, the silver-blue color or the sparkle, the sheen, that made you think that he held his heart in your hands. It was a con, a ploy, for most; but John knew that what they had, whether friendship or romance, was something real and something they both treasured.

“Why do you want to know?” Matthew said, looking away first to stare to the side, hand back to petting John’s hair.

“I want to know about you,” John said, pressing kisses down his collarbone to his chest and keeping his voice sincere, non-pressuring. “The real you.”

“And who are you, John Wick, to ask this of me?” Matthew said, and there was a thread of ice in the words. “There are no coins worth those secrets.”

John felt a pang of sadness, but not for himself, but for whatever had made Matthew cold, whatever had built that spine of steel, unbending and unyielding. John sat up, settling himself so his back was against the headboard and the sheets were bunched at his waist. He coerced Matthew, who was trying to reclaim his emotions, into his arms.

“I have no idea who my parents are,” John started. “I presume I was born in Belarus because that is where I was found wandering the streets when I was five. Perhaps I had memories of my parents at that point, but they are long gone now.”

Matthew was listening intently, eyes watching, cautious, calculating, and more honest than John had seen from him in a long time.

“They named me Jardani Jovonovich after the Father than ran the orphanage. It was a common...picking grounds for the Ruska Roma.” Which was a nice way to say that they liked to take boys and girls that showed promise and sharpen them to become weapons. “There is where I met the Director, though she wasn’t the Director at the time. She moved me to New York City.” It was odd, speaking about his life like this. It wasn’t something he tried to hide, wasn’t anything he attempted to conceal to make the legend of the Baba Yaga grow larger; it was just history. _His_ history but the events were long passed and couldn’t hurt him anymore.

“I started taking missions when I was sixteen, mostly low-priority and low-risk assassinations,” John continued, running his fingers down Matthew’s back. “I had already shown an affinity for combat at that age, and the Ruska Roma was eager to put me into use.”

“Here’s the thing,” John continued. “The Ruska Roma was my home and my family, but they own you. Every job you take is just another chance to knock off some of the debt you owe them–food, clothing, board, training. Everything they give you, you pay back with interest. Some never make enough, and they die in the service.”

John paused and breathed. It had been so long ago that he had thought about the Director and his life at the Theatre. “I was twenty-five when I bought out my contract with the help of Anatasia Tarasov–when the Director realized it was better to let me leave on good terms then keep me leashed.”

“But you are still leashed,” Matthew said, eyes sharp and voice even. “What does it matter if you bark to a different master?”

John shrugged. Sometimes he wondered that himself. “Perhaps it doesn’t, but at least I know it was my choice.”

It was the most John had probably ever spoken at once. There was no pain, no anger, or regret in the words. Just facts. “So,” John said, looking at Matthew with intent, “that’s who I am. I chose to be John Wick, chose to leave behind who I was before. So I don’t care about whatever name or face you had before. I just want to know _you_.” John knew he was saying too much, putting too much of his heart out there, but–but–Matthew made him want. And John only hoped that he could read him as well as he thought he could, that John just wasn’t another ploy or notch in his belt.

Matthew sat up at that, and his eyes were wary and cautious. But he hadn’t left, hadn’t shut down. And then he nodded, just once.

He held out his left wrist, showing the tattoo of a fishbone to John, the same one John sometimes caught him fingering when lost in thought. “Her name was Fish. Not her real name, of course, but her friends called her Fish. I was eighteen when I came crawling to her, desperate for a job.”

Matthew smiled, and it was a dark, humorless smile. “I’m surprised to this day, that she didn’t throw me out, that she gave me a chance. She saved me, saved _us_. I was her little songbird, and I think I loved her enough that I would have done anything she asked.”

“And I did. Even when she made me her pet whore, I did everything for her and she–” Matthew broke off, blinking rapidly as though to fight back the tears. He took a deep breath. “She’s the one responsible for my leg. I was careless, hasty, and she took a bat to my leg right before someone pushed me into the river. It never healed correctly.”

Matthew never let anyone touch his leg, even after the corrective surgery. It would never be a pretty limb, but it was as straight and true as it would ever be. The scars were noticeable, and one could feel the myriad of pins and screws that held it in place if they checked. John had heard, discreetly, from the Doc that it had been a miracle that Matthew was able to walk on it at all before correction. The pain, he said, would have been excruciating, every second of every day.

John kissed the tattoo, the barest brush of lips against the mark.

Matthew had a faraway look in his eyes. “I...threw her off a building, later on, in revenge. But part of me still loved her. She once told me that her greatest accomplishment would always be making me into the man I was.”

“She sounds fierce,” John said, tangling their fingers together to lay a kiss on each of his knuckles.

Matthew laughed, and it was wet and choked. “She was. She really was. I think she would have liked you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone wanted John Wick/Oswald so they got John Wick/Oswald. As mentioned, this an AU from the normal _Redacted_-verse that explores what would have happened had John and Oswald actually gotten together for real before John meets Helen. It'll be mostly fluff. 
> 
> John/Oswald was a very, very common request I got while writing Redacted, so I hoped you enjoy it. This is the first of the three side-stories I have planned, and shockingly, the one that I started last. Be on the lookout for more!
> 
> And as always, please take a moment to leave a comment to let me know what you thought! Every comment helps keep me motivated! <3


	2. Chapter 2

Something shifted in their relationship after that night. John had bared what he could to Matthew, and Matthew had returned the favor, had shown his open heart to John and let him hold him, lay sweet kisses against his lips and cheeks and nose until they both fell asleep.

Their couplings remained just as passionate, but there was this lingering tenderness in the aftermath. They didn’t talk of Matthew’s past again, but John could feel the man unravel a little bit with each week. His smiles became less flirtation and more honest affection. Their interactions in public had a certain, almost secretive, air about them now–which made no sense since everyone and their mothers knew that they were sleeping together.

But now there was something more, something more than physical and entering a realm that John had never, truly, considered before.

John was brought back to the present with an exasperated sigh. He raised an eyebrow to his drinking companion who was giving him a knowing look. John tried to school his face into one of innocence, a hard feat given his reputation.

“You keep daydreaming about that boy, and it’s going to get you in trouble one day,” Marcus said. “You two are driving Winston up the wall, you know that?”

“That is only a bonus,” John said, hiding his smile behind his glass. His eyes had been almost trained constantly at the shadowed corner where he knew Matthew was working. John had been, admittedly, a little embarrassed by a small scolding he and Matthew had gotten from the Manager for disappearing at the most inopportune times. Matthew had rolled his eyes and blown Winston a kiss, but John had been a little more careful since to not greet Matthew until he was done for the day or Addy was around to cover for him.

“Not that I’m not happy for you,” Marcus continued, setting his glass down to give John a suddenly serious look. “But be careful, John.”

John scoffed, taking another sip of his drink.

Marcus reached out to grab John lightly by the hand, giving it a friendly squeeze. “I’m serious. I warned you about the lad years ago, and nothing has changed. I know you, John. Baba Yaga or no, you wear your heart too close to the surface. Matthew is the exact opposite—you never know what that man is thinking, and he’s not above taking advantage of anything useful. And the Baba Yaga is very useful.”

John placed his other hand on top of Marcus’. “I appreciate the concern, but trust me when I say that Matthew can’t hurt me.”

“Not all wounds are on the flesh, Jonathon."

* * *

“Have you ever been in love?”

John didn’t know what made him ask, what made him speak, in the afterglow. Maybe it was Marcus’ words lingering in his mind or his own, more recent, thoughts regarding the future of the Baba Yaga.

Love had never been forbidden, because love was like a fairytale, a myth, no more real than the stories they were told about monsters under the bed as a child. Or perhaps the idea of love was even less real because they all knew what—and who—were the real monsters.

John had been with enough men and women in his life to know that he hadn’t ever been in love. None of them made him feel like love should have made him feel; none gave the flutter in the bit of his stomach or the ache of their absence in his chest.

So he didn’t know why he was asking Matthew this now—because he wasn’t in love with Matthew. No, he wasn’t.

But he knew it could be. He could see the trajectory of his heart, as damaged and broken as it may be, and knew that Matthew was someone that he could fall in love with. So he asked—in a mix of curiosity, perhaps, or self-flagellation.

In another world, his volley had been rebuked, but this wasn’t that world.

“Do you think we can love someone? I mean, really, truly love someone?” John asked, curled against another warm body in the twilight hours. And he felt Matthew tense, could read the way his shoulder froze and his fingers, which had been trailing up and down against his arm, froze like a deer in headlights.

“John,” Matthew said, soft and open and oh-so-vulnerable, just like John felt. And then he paused and licked his lips, as unsure as he had ever seemed.

And John kissed him, the barest press of lips against lips, and put in whatever he could behind the motion, all his feelings of friendship, companionship, and the promise of maybe more. And John felt the moment Matthew gave in—when he sank back into his touch and tilted his head back to let John press into the kiss.

And it was enough for now.

* * *

They went on their first date a week later—John having no assignments as Viggo and his family spent the week vacationing in the Bahamas, and he had no reason to not spend the week lounging in the Continental. He had more coins than he’d ever be able to spend in his lifetime already, collecting dust in various caches scattered around the world.

Charon had arranged a set of tickets that he handed to John in an unmarked white envelope with his ever placid little smile and a spark in his eye.

John, for his part, was...nervous. He hadn’t explicitly stated this was a date, had only invited Matthew to join him for dinner and a show, but it was, for all intents and purposes, a date. And John hadn’t dated in a long time—not able to find a real connection between the gunfights and assassinations. At best, he had relationships not dissimilar to what he shared with Matthew now—pleasant company both in and out of the bedroom but not much more.

This was the first time in a long time that he had wanted anything more.

He had purposefully dressed down—changing out his typical suit that signal work for a plain white shirt and leather jacket. Matthew had, evidently, done the same, joining John at their scheduled time in the lobby. He was as dressed-down as he ever got—still in a crisp white button-up and tie but paired with his own soft lambskin jacket.

John bent down to greet him with a kiss that had meant to be chaste until Matthew, the minx, nipped at his bottom lip and extended the greeting. When he pulled away, he could read the upturn of his lips and rolled his eyes in response.

“Ready?” John asked, offering his arm out.

And he wondered if he had misstepped when Matthew paused for a second that seemed to stretch for an eternity before he set his hand in the crook of John’s arm with a coy look up from under his lashes.

“So, where are you taking me, Mr. Wick?” Matthew asked, settling into the passenger seat of Mustang, legs crossed primly.

John shifted the car into gear as he answered. “Gallaghers,” he said. He had spent more time than he cared to admit picking a location. Matthew tended to eat little, John had noticed, but did favor more upscale cuisine with bold flavors. It hadn’t taken more than a phone call for him to reserve a table for the evening in the most defensible location.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you were trying to impress me,” Matthew said with a hint of teasing.

“I am,” John said, taking a moment at the red light to look Matthew in the eye.

And Matthew’s jaw snapped shut, a hint of a blush barely noticeable in the dim lighting.

John smiled to himself, reaching over to squeeze Matthew’s hand.

* * *

At the end of the evening, John wasn’t surprised to him himself with a lapful of the short man, his hands resting on slim hips as their tongues pushed against each other. Matthew was just as passionate as always, and John tried to tell himself that he was, maybe, just a little more tender than usual.

* * *

“Jonathon.”

John looked up, midway through cutting a bite off his omelet. “Winston,” he greeted, finding the Manager looming over his table, and gestured to the empty seat opposite him. He was enjoying a light breakfast on the veranda, taking advantage of the excellent weather, and running through ideas on how to occupy his day until Matthew was free.

Winston took a seat, taking the offered cup of tea from the waiter that he sipped almost absently. “Charon has informed me you are checked in for the week,” he said, never one to beat around the bush.

John didn’t answer, choosing to take another bite of his food while giving Winston a bored, unimpressed look.

“You rarely stay longer than three days. Any change in routine can be a cause for concern,” Winston said, forging on.

John set his fork down and took a sip of water, looking at Winston expectedly. He set the glass down, wiping the condensation off his fingers with a napkin before leaning back in his chair to give the man his full attention.

“I have concerns regarding your relationship with my staff,” Winston finally said after the silence had stretched.

“Are you giving me the you-hurt-him-and-I-hurt-you talk?” John asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh, no. Quite the opposite. I simply want you to carefully consider this path you are pursuing,” Winston said, setting down his teacup and settling his hands on his knee. He couldn’t quite look John in the eye.

“I thought you didn’t care as long as I didn’t distract your staff during working hours?”

“Ah, yes,” Winston said, clearing his throat and smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “But that was before I realized you intended to pursue a legitimate relationship with the man,” he said with heavy disapproval.

“And who says I am?” John said, deciding to be difficult.

Winston sighed, and the noise spoke volumes. “Please, Jonathon,” he said, looking at him with knowing eyes. “I believe everyone knows your intentions toward the man except the man himself.”

John had to give him that. He hadn't made any effort to hide his interest. Regardless, “I don’t know how this is any of your business,” he said.

“You are like a son to me, Jonathon,” Winston said, shifting in his seat. “And I always wish you the best. And I have doubts whether Mr. Richardson is what is best for you.”

John was getting a sense of deja vu. “And you are the best authority of what is good for me?” John said, his tone on the edge of being savage, true indignation. He was tired of people thinking they knew what was best for him.

“How much do you know about him?” Winston continued.

“Enough.”

“Do you know his real name? Where he is from? Anything before he showed up at our doorstep?” Winston needled, leaning forward.

John didn’t answer.

“Maybe he has fed you a crumb—a _scrap_—of information, and maybe you believe him. And maybe it is even true. But that man is dangerous,” Winston said.

“And I’m not?” John scoffed. “Everyone in this hotel is dangerous.”

Winston shook his head. “Not in the same way. That man knows how to get what he wants—he can manipulate people, pull strings you didn’t know existed, and then stab a man in the back without blinking. He’s cold, Jonathon. He is ice, and _you_, Jonathon, are fire.”

Matthew never felt cold to him, not really. John knew he only had to look beyond, past the thick walls he had built around himself, to see the man for who it was—sarcastic and biting, sweet and oh-so-very warm.

“Thank you for the concern, but I can handle it,” John said.

“We have no idea what that man wants, and a man with no known motive is a dangerous man indeed,” Winston said.

John patted his mouth with the napkin before tossing it onto his plate, only half-finished. “Your concern is duly noted,” he said. He dropped a coin onto the take as payment, already turning away. Perhaps he’ll spend the day in the library.

* * *

“Will you tell me something about yourself?” John asked that night, long arms curled around Matthew’s shoulder as he nestled in the crook of his arm. The sheets were in disarray, and the only light in the room was a long strip coming from the gap in the curtains.

“What did you want to know?” Matthew said, voice steady and nonchalant, but John could feel his quickening heartbeat under his fingers.

“Anything,” John said, running fingers down his arm, tracing the shape of wings and feathers. “Whatever you want to share. Your favorite color or favorite food, whether you like, I don’t know, competitive dog grooming.” He shrugged.

Matthew tilted his head up to give John an incredulous look. “Competitive dog grooming? That’s what you came up with?”

John chuckled. “Well, do you?”

Matthew scoffed, rolling his eyes. “No, no competitive dog grooming for me.”

They lapsed back in silence, John listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. John was a patient man, and he was considering the venture a victory already since Matthew hadn’t bolted or shut down on him yet.

“Purple,” Matthew finally said, not looking at John and continuing to play with his fingers. “My favorite color is purple.”

“Huh. I’m a little surprised,” John admitted, humming contemplatively. “I never see you wear purple. You’d look good in it.” He would, John could already see it in his mind’s eye. It would bring out his eyes beautifully.

Matthew shrugged, head still resting on John’s bare chest. “Bad memories.”

After a few long moments of silence, “Yellow,” John said, “is my favorite. The yellow the sky is when the sun is rising, when it is just over the horizon.” He used to sneak onto the roof of the Theater when he was younger to watch the sunrise when he could get over it; even now, he sometimes found himself waking early for the privilege. There was something calming about the time between night and morning, the time where everything was slowly waking or the feeling of a new day.

“John Wick,” Matthew said playfully, finally tilting his head up to look at John with a small smile playing at his lips, “a true romantic. Who would have thought?”

John leaned down to kiss him, chaste and brief. He smiled, looking into his stormy eyes, and said, “Now, you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll still with me? ._. Have some John Wick softness, yes?
> 
> Please take a moment to leave a comment to let me know what you thought! <3


	3. Chapter 3

John pried little kernels of information from Matthew over the months—small pieces of a mosaic that he was slowly building around the man. John had few secrets in his life; most of them pulled from his arms when he was barely a child. He, therefore, nothing to offer in exchange. He managed though, bit by bit, to wheedle morsels about the man he was doing his best to court, to learn more about, to offer up his heart to.

_Courting_ sounded so old-fashioned, but he didn’t know how else to describe what he was doing, and the phrase somehow seemed apt to describe his slowing blossoming relationship with the man.

Matthew was like an oyster, tight-lipped in everything that mattered, but John had seen a glimpse, the barest glimpse, of the pearl hiding inside, and he wanted more.

And John Wick always fought for what he wanted.

* * *

Matthew was in a sour mood today.

It wasn’t obvious to the casual observer, but they were the clear signs that John had learned to read years ago: a smile that was a tad too fixed or a laugh that was a little too easy or how he’d lean in a little too deeply, touching their forearm with a bold flirtation that was a classic cover-up for how he was feeling.

Most wouldn’t have noticed, but John and Addy weren’t most. They had known him for years, spent hours side-by-side with the man, and were thus able to read his veiled impatience. The differences tended to be so subtle that for the longest time, even John wouldn’t have been able to say what was different other than that _something_ was.

But John knew the man now, was learning the ins and outs of his mood which, despite what Matthew wanted most to believe, extended further than coy flirtation.

He shared a look with Addy, who gave him a subtle nod of encouragement, before tossing back the final dredges of his bourbon, savoring the smoky aftertaste. He set down a coin as payment before weaving his way through the lounge, cutting off the poor soul waiting for a moment with the infamous Bartender.

It was a testament to how distracted Matthew was that it took a few long seconds for him to recognize John and paste on a smile, a few degrees weaker than his usual greeting. “John,” he said, leaning forward and onto his toes to press a kiss to each cheek. “I was wondering how long you were going to lurk in the shadows.”

John resisted the urge to kiss him properly. “I was attempting to not be a distraction,” he said, pressing a return kiss on his cheek instead.

Matthew snorted, looking up at him from over the frame of his glasses. “You are always a distraction, John,” he said, eyeing him theatrically up and down.

John rolled his eyes, not able to hide his smile. “I’ll have to work on that then,” John teased in return. “I’d be a poor assassin if I couldn’t blend into the shadows.”

Matthew laughed. “So what I can help you with then today, Mr. Wick?” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter, no doubt expecting John to be there for business instead of pleasure. It didn’t take John long to dissuade him of that notion, but it did take a few minutes longer than usual to coerce the man to leave his post early.

Addy slid into his place almost seamlessly as they walked away, shooting John a wink over Matthew’s head.

It wasn’t until he had the man seated on the edge of his bed that John gave him a proper kiss. He pressed his lips to his, cupping his cheek with one large hand as he nipped gently at his bottom lip to press his tongue against the other’s and drawing out a contented moan. He coaxed him into a playful makeout session, pulling him into his lap as he ran a hand up and down his back, stroking the tense muscles subtly. He didn’t pull away until he felt the tension in his shoulder dissipate, and Matthew pressed back with more than just an obligation.

John settled him back down onto the bed and dropped a kiss onto the tip of his nose. He ignored the look of confusion as he stood, rummaging through a nightstand to pull out two small white painkillers and a sealed bottle of water. He held them out to the man wordlessly.

Matthew’s expression flattened at the offer, the almost relaxed look shutting down as he pressed his mouth into a thin line as he gave John an unimpressed look.

John didn’t budge, continuing to hold out the offered medication. “Are you really going to let yourself suffer out of pride?” John asked. Matthew was stubborn, he knew, but he didn’t think he’d be that stubborn, which was why he was surprised when he was proven wrong again.

Matthew huffed, pushing John’s hand away almost petulantly. “Thanks,” he said, the one word edged in more sarcasm and derision than John thought was possible, “but I’ll pass.”

It was a tone that John rarely heard from him, the same razor-sharp edge to his voice that was warning John to _stop pressing_. It was a reminder about how little John really knew about the man. Sometimes, he felt he knew him as well as anyone, and other times like this, John wondered if they were strangers.

But he was John Wick, and John Wick was, if anything, stubborn. So, he raised an eyebrow and continued to offer the painkillers. “I suggest you take them before I make you,” he said with a smile, still playful but edged with the confidence that they both knew he _could_ make Matthew take them if he wanted to.

Matthew bared his teeth at the threat. “Will you, Mr. Wick?”

John held his gaze for a few long moments before he sighed, settling the pills and water down to take a seat next to him. “Why are you being difficult today?” he asked, cupping his face to stroke his thumb over his cheekbone.

Matthew jerked away from the touch as though it burned. “Why are you being so kind? I’m not a child or an invalid, John,” he snipped.

“Is it too hard to believe that I care for you, and I don’t enjoy seeing you in pain?” John asked, cocking his head even as his voice held an almost teasing note.

Matthew scoffed.

John’s smile fell. “Matthew,” he said, dropping down to kneel before the man. Their height difference was enough that he was still eye-level with him, able to look straight into the storm-colored eyes he loved so much. "You don't think I actually enjoy seeing you in pain, right?"

Matthew huffed, trying to pull away only to be stopped by one of John's hands on his forearm.

"Hey," John said, concerned. Matthew had always been tight-lipped, but John had thought the most significant issues were behind them. Evidently not. "I care about you. You know that, right?"

The smile he got in return was sardonic, biting, and bitter. This was the part of the man that few saw. John had heard rumors of what Matthew did to those who fed him false information, and he had never doubted it. There was a line of cold steel that ran through the man, and John would be lying if he said he didn't find it attractive. But sometimes, in times like these, made him wish the man was just a little softer, more trusting.

"Do you, John?" Matthew asked, and the words were teasing. John would have been able to believe that it was all in jest except the look in his eye was so empty. It was the kind of emptiness that John had thought they were passed. "You don't know me. And I don't know you, Mr. Wick."

John brushed a kiss over his knuckles, pressing his lips against the array of ink decorating the skin. "I'd like to think I know you well enough,” he murmured, eyes downcast, “enough that seeing you in pain brings me no joy."

Matthew still looked distrusting, and John wondered, not for the first time, what had made this man who he was, what had tempered him into this man who hid his ice under layers of lace and laughter.

John leaned in to kiss him, and Matthew kissed back almost on autopilot. John kept the touch chaste, sweet, pouring all the emotions he could into it. "I care about you," he said, willing him to believe him.

Matthew pulled back. "Why, John? Why would you, John Wick, give two shits about a nobody like me?"

John trailed kisses down his neck, hand resting on the small dip of his waist. "Because I think you are amazing. Stunning. Smart. Ambitious. Brilliant." He accentuated each word with a kiss, as though trying to brand the meaning and emotion into the man. "You are one of the most singularly amazing people I have met," he said, heartfelt and honest.

Matthew's eyes shifted at the words, wet and shining back at John. He leaned forward and cupped one of John's cheeks in a hand and stroked his skin under a thumb. He parted his lips as though about to speak but then closed it, words not forthcoming. He averted his eyes, focusing on something just beyond John as though it was too hard to look him in the eye.

John kissed him again, hand on his chin to tip his head back. He slipped his tongue to trace the seam of the man's mouth, begging for permission.

Matthew granted it, sliding his hand back to tangle into John's shaggy hair. He pressed his tongue back against John, scraping it over his teeth, suckling at John's tongue in a way that made John groan. He slipped one hand down, trailing along the line of his suit before resting at his beltline, asking and demanding.

John closed his eyes and pushed him down against the bed, crawling over him and kissing him with everything he had, giving everything he had to the man that he—

That he—

When John woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed had long gone old, and he wasn't surprised.

* * *

It was months before he saw him again. It wasn't all Matthew’s fault—not at first. Viggo had gotten a fancy to press his advantage against a rival. This meant John was busier than normal—caught between guns and knives and bombs—and leisure trips to the Continental fell to the wayside.

But weeks later, when John finally stumbled his way into the Lounge, cut and bruised and wanting nothing more than a glass of bourbon and a kiss that tasted of cold metal, he was met with Addy's pitying look.

"Where is he?" John asked without ceremony, taking a heavy seat across from the usually peppy redhead.

"Jonathon," Addy said with a pep that wasn't quite up to her standard caliber. "The usual?"

John ignored the attempt at distraction. "Addy," he said, not in the mood for games, "where is he?"

Addy sighed and gave him a sad smile, eyes downturned. "Oh, sweetie,” she said, and John could hear the thread of pity in her tone.

"Addy," John said and gave her a long look.

"The High Table came around. They wanted him to train other Bartenders at other Continentals. He left shortly after," she said, leaning her elbows on the bar.

“When will he be back?” John asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Addy shrugged, her gaze downcast. "Months, probably."

The _if ever _remained unspoken.

"So, where is he now?" John asked, trying again. "You have to know, so don't tell me you don't."

Addy bit her lip, her bright red lipstick worrying between her teeth. “If Matty didn’t tell you he was going, then that means he didn’t want you to know,” she finally said, giving him a look in apology.

“But you know where he is.”

“I do,” she said, hesitating, “but I don’t think he’d want me to tell you.”

John set a small stack of coins between them, the gold gleaming in the low light. He didn’t bother to count them—he had enough to last him several lifetimes. “Please.” He didn’t want to beg, but he would if he thought it would help.

Addy glanced at the pile.

It was enough, more than enough, honestly for what he was asking, and John knew it.

She reached out one hand, her long nails hovering over them as though to sweep them toward her, before shaking her head and pulling her hand back. “I’m sorry, Jonathon. But I can’t. Matty trusts me, and I don’t know what happened between you two, but I can’t betray that trust. I think we both know that I would never get it back.”

John sighed, knowing she was speaking the truth. He put the coins back into his pocket, leaving one on the bartop for the untouched drink. “Thank you, anyway,” he said.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Addy said, soft. Her hair hung over her bare shoulders in soft curls, and the green backlight gave her an otherworldly feel.

“Like what?” John said, finally taking a sip of bourbon. It tasted like ash.

“Vulnerable,” she said, reaching out to take one of his large, calloused hands into hers. “What happened?”

John shrugged, ducking his head to stare at their clasped hands. “I’m not entirely sure myself,” he answered, honest. “But somehow, I’m not surprised. He’s always been…” he trailed off, not able to find the words.

But Addy understood. “Yeah,” she said, eyes kind and sad and knowing, “he has. I’m sorry, John. I wish I could help.”

John leaned over to give her a kiss on the cheek before standing. “I do, too,” he said, picking up his drink. “Thanks for the drink, Addy.”

* * *

If Matthew thought that John Wick was that easily deterred, however, he was wrong. Addy would have been the easiest way to find the man, but she wasn’t the only way. There were only so many places the man could go—and if he had caught the attention of the High Table, he was long past being able to keep a low profile.

And while Addy was smart enough to know that having Matthew’s trust was a gift one did not receive twice, that didn’t mean others did. It wasn’t going to be an easy task, however, to find a man who didn’t want to be found, who had all the resources in the world at his fingertips.

But John wasn’t going to give up. Matthew wanted him to give up—John knew it. The man had run away from him, lost and scared, because John had pushed too far, too fast. He should have known that night that Matthew wasn’t ready—that because John knew his own heart didn’t mean Matthew was ready to accept it.

But the man drove him crazy. He pushed and pulled John until he felt like he was going mad. The man alternated hot and cold, burning like ice at one moment before sweeping away like dust in the wind. John could see the kindness in him, the softness and openness that few ever got to see, and he loved it as much as the cruelty, the slash of sharp steel against warm flesh.

Matthew was one man in a million, a treasure worth more than all the gold in the world, and John was going to be damned if he was going to let him slip through his fingers.

* * *

“Sofia.”

Sofia Al-Azwar spun on her heel, the gun already held at chest-level “Jesus, John,” she said, dropping her weapon to her side. She could feel her heart beating heavily in her chest, and she ran her free hand through her long hair, brushing it out of her face as she scowled. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry,” John Wick said, shrugging as he stepped out from the shadows of her room. His hair was slicked back and out of his face, which, combined with the slim, well-fitting suit, made him cut a fine figure.

“You don't sound very sorry,” Sofia said sardonically, tossing her gun onto the bed before plopping herself on the edge with a huff. “Didn’t know you were in Buenos Aires,” she said, probing. Trouble followed John Wick like a bad stench—even being tied to a small-fry like Viggo didn’t make any difference.

“I was looking for you,” John said as he walked over to the minibar. He pulled out two glasses, dropping three ice cubes in each, before pouring them each a generous finger of vodka.

Sofia tensed. “And why might that be?” she asked, fingers itching back toward the gun. “Is there a price on my head that you suddenly decided was worth taking?” she asked, voice bitter.

John chuckled, and the sound was off, a mix of playful and dark. “Nothing like that, Sofia,” he said, handing her the drink.

“Then what is it like, John?” she said through gritted teeth and ignoring the offered drink. “Because I would like to think we are friends.”

John set the rejected drink onto the nightstand. “We are friends,” he said. “I apologize for startling you. It has been...a frustrating few months.” And suddenly, the visage of the Baba Yaga faded away, leaving just John Wick cradling a glass as he leaned tiredly against the wall.

Sofia narrowed her eyes at him, watching as he gulped down his drink in one long swallow. Something was definitely up with the man—he hated vodka. “So what is it then? What does John Wick need from me after all this time? I haven’t seen you in, oh,” she said, pretending to calculate in her head. “A year. No phone calls, no letters, and then you sneak into my hotel room—that no one should know I am in, by the way—and for what? To share a drink?”

John chuckled, giving her a wry smile that was just as infuriatingly handsome as she remembered. “I need information. I’m looking for someone.”

Sofia raised an eyebrow. “There _are_ information brokers out there for a reason,” she said, speaking slowly as though he was a child. It was more out of habit, the petulance and sarcasm, than any genuine animosity.

“Yeah,” John said, heavily as he put the glass down with an audible clank. “I’m afraid no broker has been willing to cross the man in question. Not even for me.”

“If information brokers won’t tell you, what makes you think I would? Or that I would even know?” Sofia asked, curious despite herself.

“Your boss has a lot of fingers in a lot of pots,” John said. “I figured if anyone knew something, he would.”

“And by extension, I would,” Sofia finished, nodding along. She crossed her legs, leaning back on her arms to give John an expectant look. “So, what is it you want to know?”

“I’m looking for a man. He goes by Matthew Richardson or the Bartender or, by now, I presume, the Broker,” John said.

Sofia whistled. “You never aim low, do you? No wonder none of the information brokers will talk to you—not when their boss will serve their head on a platter. Though, we both know you have the skillset to make anyone talk.” Sofia raised an eyebrow at him. “Not to mention, this man is protected by the High Table, so this is a dangerous line you are walking.”

John hesitated, making Sofia sit up straight. “I’m not searching for him for exactly...professional reasons,” he said with as much reluctance as she had ever heard from the man before.

“Okay…” she said, dubious.

“Do you know where he is or not?” John asked.

Sofia considered, leaning forward to set her elbows over her crossed legs. “Let’s say that I do. Why should I tell you?”

John groaned. “Because we are friends? Because you owe me?”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “Because unless you are cashing in that card,” which she hoped he wasn’t, “why should I tell you where to find this man who doesn’t want to be found? The High Table must be keeping him hidden for a reason, and how do I know that this won't bite me in the ass later?”

John pressed a hand over his eyes. “It’s not like that, Sofia. I swear, it won’t come back to you.”

“But _how do I know_?” Sofia asked, pressing. “What aren’t you telling me, John? If I’m going to risk myself for you, I deserve to at least know why this man is so important.”

“Because he just is!” John said, spinning to look at her with almost manic eyes. “Matthew is the most important person to me, Sofia. The singularly most amazing man I have met, and I will not let him run away from me like this.”

Sofia stood, slow, as realization dawned on her. “Are...you asking me to track down your _ex-boyfriend_?” she said, incredulous.

“Fuck,” John said, sitting down in the armchair and pouring himself another drink.

“John,” Sofia said in the same tone she used to use on her daughter.

“Yes, okay? We were together, and I...miscalculated. He ran off and has been doing his damndest to hide from me since.” John ran his hands through his hair, messing up his normally crisp styling. “I’ve been searching for months for him, and every turn is a dead end. For someone as high profile as he is becoming, he’s damn good at hiding.”

Sofia took a few steps over to bridge the distance between them, perching herself on the arm of the chair. She set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “John,” she said, not sure what she was going to say. This was foreign territory for her—this was the last thing she expected John to say and need. He had always been so...unruffled.

The Baba Yaga was the monster under every assassin’s bed. Even among those who called him a friend knew that he was a man to be feared: a killing machine who would stop at nothing once he set eyes on his target.

Sofia forgot, though, that he was still just a man. And any man could be undone by his heart just as easily as the next.

“Berrada was speaking to The Scribe a week or two ago,” Sofia said, ignoring how John’s head shot up and how there was hope in his eyes—bright and shining and so human. She forgot how human he could be, how human she could be, sometimes. “About the Broker’s next stop.”

“Where, Sofia?” John asked, earnest.

“Budapest,” she said. “He should be there by now or will be there soon. But I don’t know for how long.”

John stood up, pulling her into an uncharacteristic hug. “Thank you,” he said into her hair.

“Be careful, John,” she said to him as she watched him leave. She thought about her husband, bleeding out in her arms, and about her daughter, hidden away in some corner of the world. She would be turning ten this year, and Sofia would never see her again. “Love is a weakness for the likes of us,” she said.

John looked back at her. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I would rather live with that weakness than not love at all.”

Sofia closed her eyes, listening to the door shut behind him, and hoped he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is still with me! You'll notice that there is one more chapter count added because it...got away from me. On another note, I think we've decided that this ship name is either Wicklepot or Johnwald. What do you think?
> 
> As always, please take a moment to let me know what you thought in the comments! Every kind word gives me encouragement, especially when in the middle of a writer's block. <3


	4. Chapter 4

John took the next outbound flight to Budapest. He didn’t want to waste any time--didn’t want word to get around that he might be on the way or for the man to have left before John even arrived. He had spent months tracking him, months of following every lead he could find in-between his other commitments. He had been getting sloppy, hasty, as his need for expedience started to overturn his usual preference for caution.

Viggo had finally kicked him out two weeks prior, forcing him to take the month off to get his head out of his ass before he got shot. But even being able to devote his full attention to tracking down the wayward Bartender hadn’t produced much.

Matthew didn’t want to see him. Matthew wanted to see no one, in fact, and despite his growing reputation, fewer and fewer people knew what he looked like. He was anonymous despite his position, and those who knew his face knew better than to talk, even to John.

John knew he should accept that Matthew didn’t want to see him--that when he had left all those nights ago, it was his way of saying goodbye and telling John to let it go.

But John was a man of singular focus and will, and he would not allow the man to run--allow him to play the coward. If he wanted John to stay away, he needed to hear it from his own lips--not by proxy or just waiting for John to give up. John would not give up--not for this man.

* * *

It wasn’t easy, even knowing where the man would be. John had no doubt that at the smallest hint that John was nearby, Matthew would bolt again. And who knew how long it would be until he was able to find him again. Sofia had been a lucky break, and John knew it.

It had taken more than a few well-placed coins, slipped to those who didn’t know better before he was able to make his way into the man’s suite. He hated the idea of ambushing him, but he knew there was no other option. What needed to be said had to be said in private, and John could not, would not, risk him running again.

John had been waiting less than an hour when the man walked in. And he looked...good. John allowed his eyes to trace over the new piercing on his eyebrow and the new sprawl of ink along his arm that seemed to be a spill of gold coins, intermingled in the forest of vines and fireflies. But other than that, he looked the same. He was perhaps a little thinner, but he was as beautiful as John remembered.

John wasn’t surprised when he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, though he took pleasure in the widening of the man’s eyes when he saw who was waiting at the other end.

“Hello, Matthew,” John said, not bothering to stand. He cradled his half-finished drink in one hand. He had needed it to calm his nerves, but once he had poured it, he had wanted to be in full control of his facilities.

Because whatever happened next...it would change everything. John could feel it in his bones, deep in his soul, that he was at a crossroads in his life with the man across from him.

Matthew recovered himself quickly, and he schooled his features almost disappointingly fast into something friendly but distant. He clicked the safety back on his gun, setting it down on the dresser, and smiling as though he was happy to see him. “John Wick,” he said, with a familiar curl of his lips and the edge of flirtation in his tone, the same way he always liked to greet John, but John could see how it didn’t reach his eyes. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“In Budapest?” John said, raising an eyebrow.

“In my bedroom,” Matthew corrected with a leer. He swept closer in as close to a sashay as he could manage and dropped a kiss to John’s cheek, just as he used to always do, and swiped the man’s drink from his hand to take a sip.

“I can imagine that it’s quite the shock,” John said dryly, “considering that you left without telling me.”

“What can I say?” Matthew said, with an irreverent shrug. “When the High Table calls, you don’t dally.”

“I am sure they would have allowed you to make a phone call.”

“Perhaps,” Matthew said, and it was as good of an admission to John that he hadn’t wanted to be found--not that John had any doubt.

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Now that John had the man here, he was at a loss. “You left,” he said simply. “You left and didn’t want me to find you.” He tried not to sound hurt, but perhaps it was inevitable.

Matthew shrugged. “We had a fun time, Mr. Wick. I didn’t see the need for it to continue given my new role.”

John knew it was a lie--Matthew had avoided him even before the assignment, always conveniently busy despite their usual pattern of communication. “Is that what it was? Just a fun time?” John said, needling.

Matthew grinned over the glass, tossing the rest of the drink back before setting the glass down, hard, on the bedside table. “Of course, darling,” he said with a purr. “Though I am flattered you traveled so far to see little old me again.” He approached John with a slink in his step, leaning over the man and running his hands down his arms, feeling the muscle underneath the fabric. He dropped to a graceful kneel, settling himself between John’s splayed legs.

John opened his mouth to say something, only for his words to be caught against Matthew’s mouth. The man pressed into him, mouth coaxing him into a kiss as a firm hand rested on the back of his neck.

And John was helpless but to follow, laying one hand against the side of his face, bringing him closer as his tongue explored the familiar feel of the man, the familiar taste of spearmint toothpaste and nicotine. He let himself get wrapped up in the man again, in the feeling of his skin and the heady passion and want.

He felt the man press the heel of his hand to his burgeoning arousal, and the shock of it, the jolt of pleasure, brought him back. He pulled away, slow, only for Matthew to chase his lips with his own. John grabbed him by the wrists and forced him away, firm but gentle.

Matthew looked up at him from between his knees, lips upturned in a coquettish pout. “Don’t you want to play with me, John?”

And John did, because he had been celibate for months and no one had ever set his blood on fire like Matthew did. But John could see through the transparent ploy, see how Matthew was lashing out at him like a trapped animal, baring his teeth to make John go away so he could bury whatever past that hurt him so.

“You are beautiful,” John said instead, voice soft and reverent as he brushed his thumb over the man’s cheekbone.

Matthew recoiled at the words as though they stung--as though the compliment, the confession, was a gunshot wound to the chest. And the moment was broken, the hedonistic creature that had been parading before John disappeared, and Matthew, the real one, sneered in its place.

“What is it you want, John?” he said, words cold and mocking. “I’m sure there are plenty other of asses to fuck in New York.”

“Matthew,” John said, keeping his voice soft.

“Or are you that desperate and pathetic?” Matthew said, and the words were vicious and crude. “Couldn’t you take the hint? I left to get away from _you_.”

“I know,” John said, and the words made Matthew stop, all of his ferocity stopped by the admission and replaced with a flash of confusion before he could get the mask back up. But John didn’t let him. “I know you left to get away from me, and I know it’s because you are scared.”

“Scared? Of the great Baba Yaga?” Matthew spat out, mocking.

“No,” John said with a shake of his head, “scared of us. Of this.” He twisted his wrists, so he was holding Matthew’s hands now, lacing their fingers together. “Scared of what I feel for you and what you may feel for me.” John knew he was right. He could feel the subtle shake in Matthew’s hands and the way his heart was racing, his pulse beating like a rabbit’s against the soft pressure of John’s fingers.

“I feel nothing for you, Mr. Wick,” Matthew said, trying to pull away even though they both knew it was futile. His lips were downturned into a scowl and eyes blazing behind his glasses, the same fiery passion that had damned John from the beginning. “You were a phenomenal fuck and nothing more.”

John ignored the words, the lie. “I love you,” he said, bringing one hand up to kiss at his knuckles, right over the tattoo of a quill that was pressed into one long finger.

The admission made Matthew freeze.

“I am in love with you,” John said again, “and I know that scared you. And I know that’s why you left.”

Matthew remained silent, a statue carved out of flesh and bone.

“Matthew--” John started.

“That’s not my name,” Matthew said, voice even and flat and low. The look in his eyes was calm, too calm. “You say you love me, but you don’t know me. You know nothing about me, Mr. Wick, so I suggest you leave behind whatever fantasy you have been living in.”

“I know enough to love you,” John said, _insisted_. “I know that you are brilliant--that you have a mind that can see twenty steps forward if you wanted, could have anyone you wanted wrapped around your finger. I know you are kind--because, despite everything, you never give information on children. I know you are ruthless, cutting, sarcastic, or whatever else you want to be. I know enough to have fallen in love with you.”

Matthew ripped his hands away from John, and John let him. The man stumbled to his feet, backing away from John even as the taller man stood.

“Tell me that you don’t feel anything for me,” John said. “Tell me to my face, and I will leave you alone.”

Matthew swallowed. “I…” he trailed off, eyes unfocused before he shook his head. “No, John, no,” he said, fierce and lips pressed together tightly. “You don’t get to put this on me. You--You don’t. You know nothing of what I’ve done, things that would make you regret ever having touched me. I am not a good man.”

A smile played on John’s lips. “I’m not exactly the paradigm of virtue either,” he said.

Matthew laughed, and it was a bitter, hollow sound. “Oh no, but you have your own set of morals, John. You follow a code of your own making, and everyone knows it. You may kill, John, but you don’t delight in it. You love the thrill and the chase and the adrenaline. The kill is just the end product--it doesn’t make your blood sing.”

“And it does for you?”

Matthew laughed again, more manic. “I’ve killed people for petty reasons, John. I’ve killed people for no reason other than I wanted to see them in pain, that I wanted to feel their hearts stop beating as I cut into them again and again.”

“Is this supposed to shock me?” John said, taking a cautious step forward. “You know the life I live, the one we both have lived here.”

“I killed my step-siblings,” Matthew said with a feral grin. “I killed them and then carved them up with my knife just so I could cook them and serve them up to their mother. Does that shock you, John?”

John blinked. Once. Twice. “That is...new,” John said, processing. “Different. But that doesn’t change anything. You think I’ll be disgusted by what you’ve done? That’s just an excuse, because I have probably done worse. Is it better or worse that you’ve done it for pleasure and I’ve done it for money?”

Matthew didn’t have a response.

“I know you’ve been hurt before,” John said, reaching out to touch him on the cheek. “But I’m asking you to give us a chance.”

“You’ve never been in love before, have you?” Matthew finally said. He didn’t move away from John’s touch but didn’t lean into it either.

John shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. What is love when you could die the next hour or minute or day?”

Matthew licked his lips, eyes distant. “For some men, love is a source of strength. But for us, for men like me, it will always be my most crippling weakness. I am better off unencumbered.” The words fell from his lips awkwardly, not quite a whisper but said like a chant, a prayer, something he was remembering and scratching into his soul.

“Who said that?” John asked, leaning in and his thumb brushing the black ink under his eyes. “Who told you that?”

Matthew did flinch this time, as though just the memory, the _thought _of the memory, was enough to cause him pain. “I…” he started, sounding lost.

John pulled him close, a hand on his chin and the other resting on his waist. “You don’t have to tell me, but I want to know. I want to know everything about you, as much or as little as you will give me. Please.”

Matthew swallowed and tried for a smile. “How could I refuse a request from the infamous John Wick?” he said weakly with a broken chuckle.

There was a long moment of silence, and for a moment, John thought that maybe Matthew would pull away again.

“I...had a friend,” Matthew said, licking his lips and not meeting John’s eyes. “Someone who saved me, literally. He found me when I was bleeding and dying and took me in. He looked at me like no one had looked at me since my mother died--like I was something worth keeping and treasuring.”

Matthew pulled off his tie shakily before he started to unbutton his vest. He started at the top of his shirt, slowing undoing them one by one to show more and more of his tattoos--the eclectic mix of ink that mingled with scars. “He was there for me, at my lowest and when I was on top. He...liked riddles.” Matthew pulled aside his shirt to show John the four cursive lines of text that were carved over his heart.

John had read them a few times but had never asked.

“He told me this riddle the night I was elected mayor,” Matthew said, and John kept his face open, trying not to display any shock because that was...not expected. “And then he almost died for me.” Matthew closed his eyes at the memory, and his voice shook, the smallest tremor. “He said that he would do anything for me, and I regret not kissing him that night more than almost anything.”

John nodded, following along.

“I had never loved anyone before, but I was selfish, greedy. He met a woman, fell in love, and I killed her to keep him to myself. And in revenge, he shot me and dumped me in the river,” Matthew said, and a tear leaked out from one eye, making a slow trail down his cheek.

John brushed it away.

Matthew pushed aside his shirt again, showing John the bullet wound in his stomach, covered with another tattoo of a broken bottle of wine that had always looked like the slow drip of blood around the scar. He gave John a shaky smile. “Before that, though, he tricked me. Forced me to confess my feelings, made me think I was insane, turned everyone against me. And then once I was broken, my reputation destroyed, _then _he wanted to kill me.”

“Matthew,” John murmured, soft.

“And I deserved it,” Matthew said, another tear escaping the corner of his eye and his voice wet and shaky. “I _deserved it_, because I couldn’t give up my own happiness for his.”

“No one deserves that,” John said, gathering him in his arms. “But I understand why you are cautious, why this scares you. But--”

Matthew cut him off with a laugh, pulling back but not away. “You think that’s the end of the story?” He shook his head. “Maybe if I was a stronger person, it would be. But I still loved him, I kept coming back, and we kept betraying each other.” Matthew’s eyes grew distant again.

“Over and over and over,” he said. “One of us would do something, and the other would retaliate, and I thought that was what we were doomed to do. Play this game of cat and mouse, and I could have lived with that.” He laughed, the sound biting. “But I was a fool--I let him back into my life, trusted him after everything, and he betrayed me once more. For a woman, of course.” The smile was mocking, and the tears were falling in a slow, steady stream now.

“And so I left. I packed my bags, wrapped up my broken heart, and found my way to New York. And that’s why...I don’t want to love again. Everyone I have ever loved has died in my arms or lived long enough to see the monster I am.” Matthew closed his eyes and shrugged, full of attempted nonchalance. “Do you get it now? Why am I afraid? Because my record in matters of the heart has been on a losing streak. I think that I’m just meant to be alone.”

“But you don’t have to be,” John said. “I won’t hurt you, not like that.”

Matthew laughed. “That’s what you say now, but...Ed was my best friend, the best friend I had ever had in my life. And I thought, once upon a time, that he’d never hurt me either.”

“But I’m not him. I’m not this man,” John said.

Matthew averted his gaze, eyes fixed over John’s shoulder. “You remind me of him, sometimes. You are so different, but sometimes…”

John kissed him, pressed their lips together in a chaste sign of affection. The kiss tasted of salt, sharp and pungent. “Okay,” he whispered against his lips, “so I can’t promise I won’t hurt you, but I love you. And life is short, especially in my line of work. So, I don’t want to not try just because I am afraid.”

“I don’t…” Matthew said, unsure.

“You don’t have to love me back, not yet,” John said. “But let us try. Give me a chance, give _us_ a chance.” John pressed his forehead to the other man’s, eyes closed, as he tried to will the man to believe him, to take this leap with him. The silence stretched, and John felt his heart sink.

“My name,” Matthew said, suddenly as he pulled back.

John gave him a confused look at the non-sequitur.

Matthew offered a shaky smile. “My real name is Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot.”

“Oswald,” John said. His tongue rolled around the syllables, and the sound of it was like a bell, ringing high and clear in the air. “It is nice to meet you, Oswald,” he said--whispered into the air like a secret.

The smile he got in return was soft, shy, vulnerable, and, most importantly, hopeful. “And you, John,” he said. And then Oswald leaned forward and sealed their secret, their promise, with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading and staying with me! I may not be done with John and Oswald _yet_, but I thought I would leave it on this soft note. The Redacted universe isn't quite done yet, so please stick around for what else I might have! 
> 
> As always, please drop a comment to let me know what you think! Until next time! <3


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